"I have no objection to telling you," he said. "It was Mr.
Roundhay, the vicar, who sent me the telegram which recalled me."

"Thank you," said Holmes. "I may say in answer to your original
question that I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject
of this case, but that I have every hope of reaching some
conclusion. It would be premature to say more."

"Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point
in any particular direction?"

"No, I can hardly answer that."

"Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit." The
famous doctor strode out of our cottage in considerable ill-
humour, and within five minutes Holmes had followed him. I saw
him no more until the evening, when he returned with a slow step
and haggard face which assured me that he had made no great
progress with his investigation. He glanced at a telegram which
awaited him and threw it into the grate.

"From the Plymouth hotel, Watson," he said. "I learned the name
of it from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon
Sterndale's account was true. It appears that he did indeed
spend last night there, and that he has actually allowed some of
his baggage to go on to Africa, while he returned to be present
at this investigation. What do you make of that, Watson?"

"He is deeply interested."

"Deeply interested--yes. There is a thread here which we had not
yet grasped and which might lead us through the tangle. Cheer
up, Watson, for I am very sure that our material has not yet all
come to hand. When it does we may soon leave our difficulties
behind us."

Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be
realized, or how strange and sinister would be that new
development which opened up an entirely fresh line of
investigation. I was shaving at my window in the morning when I
heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking up, saw a dog-cart coming
at a gallop down the road. It pulled up at our door, and our
friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up our garden path.
Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to meet him.

Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but
at last in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him.

"We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devil-
ridden!" he cried. "Satan himself is loose in it! We are given
over into his hands!" He danced about in his agitation, a
ludicrous object if it were not for his ashy face and startled
eyes. Finally he shot out his terrible news.

"Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly
the same symptoms as the rest of his family."

Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant.

"Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?"

"Yes, I can."

"Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we
are entirely at your disposal. Hurry--hurry, before things get
disarranged."

The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an
angle by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a large
sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet
lawn which came up to the windows. We had arrived before the
doctor or the police, so that everything was absolutely
undisturbed. Let me describe exactly the scene as we saw it upon
that misty March morning. It has left an impression which can
never be effaced from my mind.